"Absolutely NOT," France snapped, practically hissing as she stormed down the corridor.
"Come on, you goose! This is a REALLY BIG formal meeting!! Like—loads of important people are gonna be there!" Ireland called after her, exasperated. "Don't you wanna be girly and princessy for just one day?!"

So, what happened?

Well, France had absolutely ruined her original dress during a reckless game of chase by the pond—with Ireland, of course. Now she was stuck wearing his clothes: a crisp white blouse, fitted trousers, and high boots. And the worst part? They looked amazing on her. The outfit hugged her figure perfectly, somehow making her seem even more untouchable—strong, striking, and beautiful in that dangerous, off-limits kind of way. She loved the freedom of it.
No petticoats.
No corsets.
No pointless fluff.

So when word came down that there would be a grand formal party—laced with politics, egos, and every royal family imaginable—France had no interest. Of course, she was still an honored guest, so she couldn't exactly skip. Ireland, trying to be helpful (or so he claimed), presented her with a carefully chosen gown: all silk, lace, and overly fancy satin. The kind of dress that practically screamed "fragile and decorative."

NO.
NO WAY.
Any girl might have gushed over it—but not her. And it was picked out by Ireland, which made it even worse. Who let this boy have such good taste in women's fashion anyway? He knew way too much about hair, shoes, color palettes... Ugh. Boring.

Now Ireland was chasing her through the halls, again, holding the dress like it was a weapon. "It's just a dress! Why are you being so stubborn?!"

Eventually—after what felt like a war of attrition—Ireland shoved the dress into her arms and pushed her into a side room. Too tired to argue anymore, France gave in. The handmaid helped her into the gown and styled her hair in a simple braid (none of those giant peony-shaped monstrosities other girls wore), and applied just a touch of makeup—fine. Lipstick only. That was acceptable.

When she finally stepped out, Ireland actually gasped.
Stunning.
Long lashes, red lips, pale skin, slender and poised.
"You look amazing," he breathed.

France rolled her eyes. "Don't be dramatic," she said flatly, though the blush was hard to miss.

"So... tell me about this party?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

Ireland thought for a moment. "It's more like a political discussion between nations," he said slowly. "Countrymasters are expected to attend. My family'll be there—Uncle Scotland, Father B.E, my twin Northern Ireland, my younger-but-technically-older-than-you brother Britain, and cousin Wales. Oh, and some of the other big shots: Prussia, Holy Roman Empire, Spanish Empire, Portuguese Empire, Russian Empire, Dutch Republic... Honestly, it's a packed house."

He gave her a teasing smirk. "Pretty sure your brother and your father are coming too. Aren't you excited?"

France tried to keep her face neutral. "Whatever," she said, voice cool as ever—but there was no hiding the gleam in her eyes.
Her brother! How loud, how jolly, how utterly ridiculous!
She missed him so much.

As they stepped up to the grand ballroom doors, she could feel the weight of the evening pressing in.
Politics.
Tension.
Too many eyes.
Too many words.

"Ready?" Ireland whispered beside her.

France gave a wicked smirk. "Always."

The doors swung open.

They stepped inside—straight into a storm of political chaos.